


but then you say "please"

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Blow Jobs, Clubbing, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Washington Capitals, celebration antics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 10:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Quite the charmer,” TJ goads. His feet are a little more under himself now. “Bet you could get anyone you want, kissing them like that.”“Cut the shit,” John says, but he’s smiling, running a thumb over TJ’s cheek.





	but then you say "please"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunshinexbomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/gifts).



> title from st. vincent's "savior". thanks for the prompt, jarka!! i hope you like it <3
> 
> for those of you blissfully unaware, timothy oshie [is](https://twitter.com/ikhurshudyan/status/1005521074233249792)[ raucously](https://twitter.com/AlexSmithSzn/status/1005581116106035200)[ drunk,](https://twitter.com/dcsportsbog/status/1005583170761297920) and has been since the cup win.

“You’re actually the second John or Jonny I’ve really wanted to fuck,” TJ says, blinking slowly, and he’s so, so drunk. He’s clutching a bottle of champagne like it’s a lifeline. When did that happen? 

 

(Twenty minutes ago, he dimly remembers, letting his head loll back against the sticky vinyl of the club’s curved booth in the corner that the team has annexed. Ovi shoved the bottle into his hand and insisted TJ have one to himself. Which, bad idea, offering to rally with Ovi. The man can  _ drink _ .)

 

Carly chuckles, putting his beer on the table. TJ swears he can hear the muffled clink of glass on resin over the pounding bass. “I’m flattered,” Carly – John? Is John what he likes to be called in bed? – answers. He’s smiling, a little bashful, tilting his head down and avoiding TJ’s gaze. 

 

There’s an awkward pause as TJ tries to swim through the slowed-down mess of his brain, deciding on what to say. When the lights in the club flash blue, they catch John’s lashes, the open collar of his dress shirt, soaked in what TJ can only assume is even more alcohol. It’s distracting. God, he hasn’t felt like this since college.

 

Which, incidentally, is when he last wanted someone named John or Jonny to fuck the hell out of him.

 

Jesus  _ Christ _ , he needs to get a grip. 

 

“Uh,” is what comes out of TJ’s mouth, after all that opportunity to form something more eloquent. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” John answers, rolling up his sleeves, tucking the cuffs in perfectly before fixing his hair with one hand. TJ tries to be subtle about watching the tendons in his wrist flex and fails. “You wanna go dance?”

 

TJ absolutely should not be dancing, no sir. His head feels totally disconnected from his body, and when he moves a hand, the world moves with him, around him, whatever he does rippling outwards and away in an oddly lush chain reaction. 

 

“Yeah, of course,” he answers, and lets John take the champagne from his hand and set it on the table, lets John grab his wrist, lets John take them down the stairs to the center of the club. Ovi holds court over the DJ booth above the throng of people, Cup shining silver in his arms. Nicky’s obvious amusement bleeds together with the little bit of apprehension on his face. 

 

It’s a massive nightclub, with some well-known artist DJ-ing tonight. TJ’s long forgotten his name, but judging from the crowd, it’s about the peak of the night, a comfortable roar of conversation and a backdrop of electronic dance music. The space is nice, too, clearly expensive to upkeep, but when you walk in clutching the Stanley Cup, no one really gives a fuck about cover.

 

“Here,” John says, stopping and tugging TJ against him into a pocket of space on the dancefloor between what must be hundreds of people jumping, dancing, and writhing under the dim lights. TJ falls forward against John’s chest. John’s warm and solid, breath hot and ragged in TJ’s ear. TJ elects to wrap his arms around John’s neck, burying his face in John’s shoulder and closing his eyes to steady himself against the onslaught of sensation. “This okay?” TJ asks, and John answers by sliding his hands over TJ’s ass to settle on his lower back, keeping TJ close. 

 

“Of course,” John says, low, and oh, okay, TJ can get down with that. “Is this okay?” John parrots back, nudging TJ’s head up and to the side to press his mouth under TJ’s jaw. The bass ricochets up, nearing a crescendo, and the lights flash faster. TJ moans, lost to the noise of the crowd, pressing his hips forward. He needs to be closer, like, yesterday. 

 

“Alright,” John murmurs, teasing, and TJ pulls back to look at him. John’s cheeks are flushed in the dim light of a pause in the music, and then the bass drops, and TJ’s entire body feels electric. 

 

TJ presses their lips together, and John hesitates, surprised, before pushing back. His mouth is plush against TJ’s, lips chapped. It’s everything TJ’s kept himself from thinking about for two years, and there’s a brief surge of  _ holyfuck  _ in his brain; this is wrong, there was a reason he meant to keep himself from doing this. Then John pulls him closer, fingers gripping at TJ’s back, and why did TJ think this was a bad idea at all?

 

“Quite the charmer,” TJ goads, pulling back to breathe. His feet are a little more under himself now. “Bet you could get anyone you want, kissing them like that.”

 

“Cut the shit,” John says, but he’s smiling, running a thumb over TJ’s cheek. “You get so pink. So responsive, even when I’m just hitting your ass with a stick in warmups. It’s hot.”

 

Something warm blossoms in TJ’s chest, satisfied, like he wants John to show him off. Like John could do anything he wanted with TJ, really. It’s a little terrifying, thrilling. TJ files it away for later.

 

TJ grins, and John kisses him again, lets it slide into one long, wet series of kisses. Opening his mouth, TJ offers more, and John takes and takes, leading TJ by the tongue until TJ’s practically writhing. “Fuck,” TJ huffs out, pushing his hips forward and up and John laughs, pleased. 

 

“It just looks like you’re dancing,” John comments, pushing back against TJ’s lower body. TJ looks at him, considering, before pushing against John’s thigh again, not breaking eye contact. John’s hands move to TJ’s ass, settling, possessive. 

 

“I love this song,” TJ says in return, nonchalant, and swings his hips side to side, a slow grind. John’s eyes go dark as TJ’s thighs and ass flex under his hands. To anyone who isn’t looking too closely, they’re just another couple in the crowd. But TJ’s stomach is molten hot the more John slides his hands over TJ’s body, and like – they just  _ won _ , fucking finally, they’re motherfucking champions. 

 

Invincibility tends to be stronger than alcohol.

 

John twists his hips against TJ’s, muttering nonsense to edge TJ on. It starts easy, when TJ tunes in, starts reacting. “You look so good, Osh,” comes first, followed by “Bet you love everyone watching you, huh? Bet you’d give it up real easy,” and, like, TJ can definitely play this game.

 

“Yeah,” TJ breathes, accentuating how desperate he sounds. John’s hard against the bowl of TJ’s hip. Huh. “Real easy, take me home.”

 

It doesn’t have to make sense with how John inhales, sharp.

 

“Wanna hit your ass for real,” John continues, and TJ shouldn’t be surprised, but he still feels his dick react to the fantasy nonetheless. John’s hands, huge and warm, spread across his ass; the thud of palms on thin skin – yeah, TJ wants that. Maybe not tonight, but  _ definitely  _ tomorrow. “You love being hit so much in warm ups, I bet you love the sting.” 

 

John’s reading him like an open book. TJ doesn’t have much to bounce back with, except –

 

“You like to be in charge, huh?” TJ starts, and proceeds to drag John by the hips to match the swivel of his own, watching the surprise on John’s face settle into lazy desire. “What a fucking menace, keeping your number, keeping the rules, bet you couldn’t keep from running your mouth unless I gagged you.”

 

“You won’t be the one getting gagged,” John fires back, and this is too much.

 

“Room key?” TJ interjects, stern, and maybe a little too needy. “Please?”

 

“What, you not up for blowing me in the bathroom?”

 

“Asshole.”

 

“Careful,” John says, and TJ’s already pulling away, scanning for the coppery light of the men’s bathroom sign. It’s a little to their left, not too far, and TJ grabs John’s wrist, dragging him along. 

 

“C’mon.”

 

John sidles up behind him, arm around TJ’s waist, body half-hidden. Either he’s hiding how hard he is or he’s driving TJ crazy. Either way, the contact burns against TJ’s side. “I’m here. Let’s go.”

 

And like, no one can blame TJ for moaning like something out of a scripted porn when John pushes him into one of the obtusely oversized stalls and locks the door, pushing TJ up against it. John slaps a hand over his mouth. TJ bites him.

 

“Watch it,” John says, but TJ’s already reaching down to undo John’s belt and nipping under his jaw before sliding to his knees. Someone groans in the stall next to them. Clearly they weren’t the only ones with the what-happens-in-Vegas ideas. When TJ looks up, John’s smirking. 

 

As TJ pulls John’s boxers down just enough to lick around the head of his dick, he isn’t smirking anymore. 

 

“Shit, Teej,” John gasps, and TJ guides John’s free hand that isn’t braced on the side of the stall to his hair. John’s surprisingly gentle in playing with the long hair at TJ’s nape as TJ kisses John’s hip, licks up the underside of his dick, focused on the heat under John’s skin, the pulse against TJ’s cheek as he presses his face to John’s lower abs just to feel it. 

 

He looks up, and John’s staring at him, a little awed. It’s an ego boost, for sure. Keeping the eye contact while TJ coaxes John’s dick into his mouth isn’t really feasible, so TJ closes his eyes instead, inhales John’s body wash and the thick fragrance of pheromones. John pushes his hips up and his cock bumps the back of TJ’s mouth, making him gag a little. TJ responds with a hand to John’s stomach, holding John in place as he pulls back and sinks down again. John swears as TJ hollows out his cheeks on the upstroke, upping his pace, trying to fit as much of John in his mouth as he can.

 

Under normal circumstances, TJ can take guys further in, swallow around the thickness of someone fucking his throat, but even his fucked up brain realizes that he’s already had enough to drink. It isn’t worth trying. 

 

TJ pulls off for a moment, wiping his mouth. John pushes his thumb over TJ’s lower lip. TJ’s mouth drops open, and he shudders, almost involuntary. “I’ll deepthroat you next time,” TJ manages, a little slurred from just having John fucking into his mouth. “Just – let me get you off. More pressure?”

 

John nods, nonvocal, and TJ opens his mouth, tapping John’s hip, letting John feed TJ his dick until TJ taps his hip once more. “God,” John says, and the head of his cock is soft on TJ’s tongue. TJ blows him like that, steady, varying his strokes and bringing a hand up to take what he can’t fit in his mouth. His jaw stretches a bit so that he can work his tongue around the crown when he needs a second to breathe more fully, and John’s hips twitch. 

 

“You gonna come for me?” TJ says after a few rounds of varying his pressure, adding the barest hint of teeth against the underside of John’s shaft. He gets the sense that maybe John likes a little bit of pain, be it giving or receiving, and he guesses right, judging from how John stiffens up in response. 

 

“Yeah,” John pants. His mouth is swollen, and his hair is falling into his face in pieces. “C’mon, fuck, please –”

 

This time, TJ adds suction, works hard and fast, exaggerates the sounds and moans a little when John tugs his hair. A few seconds later, John’s shoving TJ’s head down, holding him in place and going completely still. 

 

“Ah, TJ, fuck, Christ,” he says a second later, and TJ swallows, and swallows, and pulls off at the last second, looking up at John to show off the stripe of jizz across his lower lip before licking it away. John makes a weak sound, fighting to get his breath back. “Up,” he gasps, grabbing TJ’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “Get up here.”

 

John’s hands blindly fumble for TJ’s belt, getting his zipper undone. TJ turns them slightly so that John’s boxed in against the cold metal of the partition, hands on either side of his shoulders, music still filtering in from the dancefloor.

 

“That was so good,” John murmurs, taking TJ’s cock in his hand and twisting on his first downstroke, keeping his fist tight enough for TJ to fuck into. TJ sighs, sagging against John’s body. “God, I’ve wanted to fuck you since you first laughed at how I made fun of your stupid pregame thing.”

 

“Carly,” TJ begs. “Please, it’s not gonna take –”

 

“I’m gonna get you really desperate, one day. Draw it out. I wanna see you blush like that again. You have no idea.”

 

“ _ Carly _ ,” TJ repeats, softer, and John thumbs around the head of TJ’s dick. “John.” TJ presses their foreheads together, watches John’s fingers work. 

 

“I mean it,” John says, rough, and kisses TJ, and TJ’s orgasm hits him all at once, off guard, even though he’s been hard since John first pulled him in by the belt loops. His knees buckle a little, but he’s able to steady himself, ride the high as John strokes him through it. 

 

TJ makes a plaintive sound. He feels a little deflated, but not in a bad way. More relieved. Like someone’s loosened the tension, let him stop worrying about thinking about something he told himself wasn’t acceptable to even imagine. John brings his hand up and licks it clean, glancing briefly at TJ before breaking eye contact as he blushes. 

 

“Hot,” TJ says, and kisses John once more. “Good job.”

 

“Same to you,” John says, and TJ rolls his eyes. John looks down again, buttons his pants, fingers playing at TJ’s belt awkwardly like he wants to help. 

 

“Dude,” TJ says, making quick work of his own zipper and belt. “C’mon. We should do this again?”

 

The intonation makes it more inquisitive, and John’s expression softens. He smiles, lazy and wide; shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks a little like a sloth, eyes hooded, wrung out. TJ stifles a laugh at the realization. 

 

“We should,” John says, more certain. “But for now, let’s finish the bottle that we left.”


End file.
